Jogjakarta

Knowing how close the Jakarta bombings were to my heart (and my hotel), I've been keeping myself up to date with the investigations.

Nevertheless, I found this latest article completely shocking. I couldn't believe it.

It details how highly organised and structured these bombings were "... funding, recruitment, spiritual guidance, welfare officers for jihadi families, and others who were assigned such tasks as securing explosives, looking after transport, making videos and acting as couriers and messengers."

That part was fine. Stock standard even.

The other part was not. The part where the suicide bombers were going jogging during their final days.

Jogging?

Whatever for?

The benefits from jogging are not immediately felt. It can take weeks (or even months) to feel the positive results from jogging. It can even weaken you in the short term with sore muscles. Or a bleeding toe.

When, exactly, were they expecting to reap the benefits from this exercise regime?

Imagine if a giant asteroid was going to hit earth in 5 days and we were all going to be killed. We've all imagined what we would do in our final days. Panic, sure. Alcohol, definitely. Debauchery, probably.

But jogging?

A lot more people have put a lot more thought into this than me. There are countless films about Armageddon events. There are traffic jams. Blackouts. Kids with dirt on their cheeks clutching stuffed toys. Black Presidents. White looters. A mandatory wealthy old retired couple serenely drinking tea on the porch of their beach house.

But never, never, someone putting on a tracksuit and going for a run.

Why would a suicide bomber - someone with a clear deadline - decide that the final days leading up to his fireworks display was the time to get fit?

What sort of a sick bastard could do something like this:

"Oh my God! We're going to die! Only 1 day left! Tomorrow! What will we do??"

-- "How's about a 5k run?"

"Sure. I've been feeling like bit of a fatty lately."

I don't think I like terrorists any more. They scare me.

The Milkmaid's Tale (Part Evil)

I've been meaning to write about the Evil Milkmaid for some time. As each day brings more to tell and the task feels insurmountable. So much split milk under the bridge. So much to tell. Where to start? Where to end? The longer I leave it the more daunting it gets.

I am like an 8 year old wandering aimlessly around a messy bedroom.

Today I was thinking about the film Memento, where the main character develops anterograde amnesia and needs to rely on present events to reconstruct his past.

So that is how I'm going to explain the Evil Milkmaid. Provide just enough information about the present day events for you to slowly (and painfully) reconstruct this painful past.

A kind of Groundhog Day. That is, if Groundhog Day had an unhappy beginning and an unhappy ending. And no nauseating Whatsherface in it.

Back to the Evil Milkmaid.

Senior executives of large companies in Vietnam nearly always come from rich, connected families. This is true socialism - where poor business acumen, work ethic or experience are no barrier to promotion.

You start with an arranged marriage. Combine it with a big house. Stir in some high-ranking government connections. Add a dash of overseas education. Bake slowly for 12 years in an air-conditioned office and ... Ding! You're at the top!

Ergo the Evil Milkmaid is very senior in my company.

This means that she needs to sign-off or approve things. Lots of things. Including lots of things I need to do.

I have been forced to work with her in a number of areas. I'm her only potato underling and she hated me from the get go. She has consistently obstructed or objected my attempts at working with local clients. I didn't recognise this as racism at first but it didn't take long. (She's an Evil Milkmaid, remember, not a Subtle Milkmaid.)

She has a huge amount of confidence and power, neither of which is supported by ability or aptitude. In a professional sense, the Evil Milkmaid has little idea about what I do. She has no absolutely no experience or knowledge in my area of expertise. Neither do I ... but that's hardly the point. I'm not the one stopping me.

When I go to her she often. Just. Stops. Me. Deadinmytracks. She won't approve it. When I ask why, she usually says I don't understand the Vietnamese people or Vietnamese business culture. When I ask for more information or help on this front, she will typically tell me to go away - that she's too busy to answer my questions.

I am not talking about the impression she leaves me with. I'm talking about the actual words she uses, eg:

"Go away please Anthony - I'm too busy to talk to you."

Seriously.

That's why she's evil.

A couple of weeks ago the Evil Milkmaid went on leave. Now I know what it feels like to be the prison Bitch whose Daddy had been granted an early parole.

I was able to set my own direction on dealing with clients and made some good decisions.

Last week I had a series of meetings with a new client which went swimmingly. On the Friday I did a large presentation to the CEO which was very well received.

When the Evil Milkmaid heard about this she was pleased. She smiled as she repeated the positive feedback that she had heard from my colleague and the client.

Because let's get this straight. The Evil Milkmaid is not. And nor will she ever be. Warming to me.

She needed me now. She realised that I could help meet her sales targets for the year.

The next couple of times I talked to her about this client she was quite friendly, albeit through a strained smile. As we talked about "next steps" or "sales strategy" she would occasionally brush me on the arm. Vietnamese people can be a bit touchy when they like you, even at work, but this did not feel genuine or warm. This felt more like a paedophile testing his boundaries.

Moving right along though.

The Evil Milkmaid has an accomplice. In my head I call him Gay Gordon. He is neither Gay, nor Gordon. In fact he is a devout Muslim with an English accent who also seems to hate white people. The Evil Milkmaid loves him. (Or should I say, needs him.)

My disobedient mind gave him this nickname quite early on in our relationship. I don't know why, but probably because both of these words would repulse him: Gordon is so whitebread. Gay is so ... umm ... gay.

So I call him Gay Gordon under my breath and smile. Sometimes when he's talking, I imagine him awkwardly dancing at a céilidh. And smile.

This week I've been sitting close to the Evil Milkmaid's desk. Yesterday afternoon I overheard a phone conversation between her and Gay Gordon that went like this:

"Yes Anthony did his presentation to them last Friday."

[Pause]

"Oh no. No. They were actually very impressed with it."

[Pause]

"Yes Gordon. Yes I am sure."

[Pause]

"No. Very happy with Anthony. No Gordon I am sure. Because checked with them ..."

[Pause]

"Me too. I am surprised, too. I think maybe he is learning. Learning finally."

Well ain't she just the best Evil Milkmaid a cow could ever hope for?

Mooooooo!!!!!!